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my howls are silent

I, too, see the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness. We are decomposing too early, our souls dying before our bodies can catch up. We are silently ravenous, a quiet craze in our hearts, not quite the same as your generation, Ginsberg. We do not shriek "Holy! Holy! Holy!" as we burn. We drown soundlessly.

The overeducated, proud products of postmodernism dissolve in a lukewarm soup of ennui, bored balloons filled with hubris rather than helium. Fragile dolls with flaking bones and hair and skin like flowers wilting, weighed down by indomitable wills and insecurities... these plastic girls starve to death and diabetes in the car beside me, fantasizing about food in the passenger seat. Former nymphets gouge symbols into themselves, the bleeding crags physical outlets for the demonic depression, for the memories of beloved older brothers molesting them in the living room, while her mother sits at a hospital bedside beside a fading father.

I see the most remarkable minds crippled by their religion of cleanliness, an all-consuming and greedy need for order, for control; certainty the god of their lives. Cultural expectations stifle other saplings, weeds wrapping around the fledgling faunlet stems and strangling them so slowly. There is the slew of abusive lovers and parents, Little Boys and Fat Men demolishing my peers. Some could fill swimming pools with their vomit, puking to the tune of "I'm a failure; I'm worthless; I'm nothing." Others, irresponsibly hedonistic, toss themselves into that loud ravine, belly flopping into that notorious stream overflowing with vodka and heroin, rum and ecstasy, emerging with mutated morals and faces and futures.

Disillusioned, emotionally stunted cripples rise from the wreckage, tethered to this Earth by cowardly consciences. I sit beside a modern Morningstar, his lungs bleeding as I pen this, and I understand your anger, Howler, your sorrow and your fear. My rage stills me, flooding through my veins and entombing me. My fear robs me of direction, my ennui of ambition. I grieve for my generation, too, Ginsberg; but my howls are silent.

based on Allen Ginsberg's infamous poem, "Howl," of which the first few lines are below

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,

Activity

I will refrain from dancing around the house for a moment to express my deep and utter thanks to everyone who commented on/favourited/collected my poem, "My Howls Are Silent," as well as to those who recently followed me.I cannot begin to describe how excited I am. sdjngskdgnfaljsdflartmarec,jr4xalwsehrnvckxmd vsnckgtk4jsxdh nvcmnvrsetvdrnchntvreuiyjmhnmtfjufdjueidfklgnsdzkfngdkjhngkawhrifdmsckjZDgfbresdkgbnlfaewiori4wre8sdifjzxkljfsgbjergbklerjgarskjltgbaerwfsdilaiq[ergfsdvxcniuertg5498fdujknvxcsdiufrseiuhte948rshfdThis is something I have dreamed about since I was thirteen.I love you all.<3 <3 <3 <3

All of a suddenI faced a starecoming out of a cagein the middle of a street,two icy circles,two magnets,two enemy currents,two eyesthat penetrated my eyesand nailed me to the earthand to the leprous wall.

I then sawthe rippling bodyand it wasa trace of velvetflexing perfectly,darkest night.

The thinkingthrobbingpantherwasonlyasavagequeenin a boxin the middleof a filthy street.Out of the junglefar away from lies,the stolen spaces,the bittersweet odorof humansand their dust-filled housesshe aloneexpressedthrough her gem-likeeyesher disgust,her burning hatred,and those eyesweretwounbreakablesealsthat closeduntileternitya door to the wilderness.

She paced back and forthlike fire and like smoke,and when she closed her eyesshe became invisibledistant unembraceable night."